by Diana Lopez
I shook the wishful thinking from my mind as I untangled the shoelaces and threaded them through the tennis shoes and boots. Then I returned to the kitchen and found Jimmy tearing paper towels into tiny pieces, while Dad spooned migas onto our plates and Carmen set the table.
“Thanks for helping,” she told me, all sarcastic.
“No, thank you for helping me.” I could be sarcastic, too.
“You’re the one who snuck off to text Iliana so you wouldn’t have to work in the kitchen.”
“Well, I’m the one who had to clean up Jimmy’s mess after Dad asked you to check on him.”
“He didn’t ask me. You’re the oldest, remember?”
“¡Por favor!” Dad said. He still had the spoon in his hand and was clenching it so tight. I could see the muscles and veins in his forearm. “I just want to have a nice dinner for Mom. A nice, peaceful dinner. She had a really hard day, understand?”
Carmen and I glanced at each other. Why did Mom have a hard day? As far as we could tell, she went shopping and got a good deal on bathing suits. Something was up, and we both knew it. We’d never admit that our brains were hooked on the same idea, but they were.
“Take your seats,” Dad ordered. He picked up Jimmy and placed him on his booster chair. “All of you stay put. And don’t say a word till I get back.”
We obeyed, but it was tough. Staying quiet was impossible for my little brother and sister. Jimmy kept blowing bubbles through the straw of his sippy cup and Carmen kept tapping her fork against her glass. I could see her lips moving, which meant she was counting. Later she’d tell me exactly how many times she tapped her fork, plus whatever else she’d counted. She couldn’t help herself, and Jimmy couldn’t help making a mess, even with his spill-proof sippy cup. I loved them, but I couldn’t stand it sometimes, couldn’t stand them.
Finally, Mom and Dad stepped in. As soon as she saw the table, Mom said, “What’s this?”
“I made dinner,” Dad announced.
“And I set the table,” Carmen added.
“But I could have made dinner,” Mom said. “I was planning to. I always make it, don’t I?”
“Just wanted you to have a day off,” Dad said, all cheery.
He pulled out her chair. He could be a real gentleman, but since he pulled out Mom’s chair only at fancy dinners or weddings, this was weird. Mom must have thought so too, because she hesitated before sitting down. Then Dad went to his seat and told us to dig in. We did. Quietly. For once, Carmen wasn’t acting like a know-it-all and Jimmy wasn’t begging for something to hold. It was a perfectly quiet dinner like Dad had wanted, but it sure wasn’t peaceful.
Finally, Jimmy broke the silence. “Gimme juice!” he said, holding out his sippy cup.
Mom scooted back her chair, but Dad said, “I got it.”
“That’s not…” she tried.
“It’s my pleasure,” Dad said. “You get Jimmy’s juice every night.”
She crossed her arms. “That’s right. I do.”
“So let the rest of us help,” Dad said. “There’s no need for you to do everything.”
“And there’s no need for me to do nothing at all.”
I felt totally confused. Dad was acting super nice, but Mom was acting mad. “What’s going on?” I had to ask.
“Your father’s treating me like an invalid,” Mom said.
Carmen jumped in. “Chia doesn’t know what that is. You have to define it for her.”
“I know what ‘invalid’ means,” I protested.
“What does it mean then?”
“An invalid is what you’re going to be after I break your legs because you’re such a brat all the time.”
“Quit fighting, girls,” Dad scolded. “You’re upsetting your mother.”
“They’re not upsetting me. I’d rather see them fight than see you cater to me. Their fighting is normal. It’s… it’s energetic.”
That was a strange thing to say. My dad thought so too, because he stared at my mom for a long time—she stared back—whole paragraphs passing between them. The entire time, Jimmy kept saying, “Gimme juice. Gimme juice.” But Mom and Dad were motionless. Finally, Mom stood up, and then—she pulled off her shirt! She was wearing a hot-pink bikini top, and she straightened her shoulders to show it off.
“You can’t walk around like that,” Dad said.
“You’re not going to make me cover up.”
“But we’re not at the beach!”
Mom laughed. “Well, I can pretend. I’ve got nine days to pretend.”
“Mom? Dad?” Carmen’s voice cracked a little, and then Jimmy started to cry. Maybe he was tired of waiting for juice, or maybe he was scared like Carmen.
“Is this how you want to tell the children?” Dad said. “While they’re all upset?”
“Tell us what?” Now my voice cracked. Once again, my parents stared at each other. This time, whole chapters passed between them, while a dozen scenarios ran through my mind. Were they getting divorced? Were they going bankrupt? What secret were they keeping from us?
“Your mother is sick,” Dad said calmly.
“What kind of sick?” I had to ask because I knew this was bigger than a stomachache or the flu.
Mom took Jimmy’s cup and refilled it. I could tell she was stalling. When she handed it to him, she kissed the top of his head. Then she returned to her seat, grabbed her fork, and pushed the remaining migas around her plate. And finally, without looking at us, she said, “I have breast cancer. I’m going to have a mastectomy in nine days.”
5 ROBINS
The next day, Iliana stopped by my house so we could walk to the park together. Like me, she was skinny and had brown eyes, but Iliana wore gobs of mascara, so sometimes her eyelashes looked like spider legs. Our hairstyles were different, too. I had long brown hair, usually in a ponytail, while Iliana had short hair with lots of curls.
“OMG,” she said (she loved to speak text sometimes), “my brothers’ friends are so cute.”
“Your brothers are cute,” I said.
“To you, maybe. To me, they’re a pain. They are so protective. I have to tell them everywhere I’m going to be and when I’ll be back and they’ll probably still check up on me. They’re stricter than my parents. And they torture me!”
“How?” As far as I could tell, they were the nicest brothers in the world. At least she didn’t have to live with a walking encyclopedia.
“First, they invite their friends over to play video games. Did I mention how cute their friends are?” She didn’t let me answer. She just kept going. “Then, they shut me out. Literally. They close the door to their bedroom and tell me to stay out. So there I am standing with my ear to the door, just listening to all the video game sounds and to these really cute guys cheer after shooting some monster or who knows what, and then…”
I didn’t mean to tune out. Normally, I loved hearing about Iliana’s brothers, but how could I get excited about video games and cute boys when Mom was scheduled for surgery next week?
Suddenly, Iliana yanked me off the sidewalk, seconds before a skateboarder whizzed by.
“What planet are you on?” she said. “Didn’t you hear the skateboard? Didn’t you hear Chad call ‘Sidewalk!’ right before he almost bumped into you?” She held up two fingers to show me how close he’d been. “You have to pay attention because knocking a cute guy off his skateboard is not the best way to make a first impression, even if it is a close encounter of the fourth kind.”
“Close encounter” is how we describe our relationships with boys. We got the idea after Iliana did a report on space aliens and learned that scientists call UFO sightings “close encounters.” They even have different categories depending on whether you saw a vague shape in the sky or an actual life-form. Since boys seem as strange as aliens, Iliana and I decided to invent our own categories:
Close encounter of the first kind—boy knows you exist.
Close encounter of the second kind—boy talks
to you, but only at school and only about boring school stuff like “Can I borrow a pencil?”
Close encounter of the third kind—boy talks to you and sends you text messages about interesting stuff like favorite video games or funny YouTube videos.
Close encounter of the fourth kind—actual physical contact!
I still hadn’t experienced a close encounter of the first kind with Chad, which was disappointing because, with his blond hair and perfect tan, he topped my Boyfriend Wish List, along with Forest Montoya, Alejandro Guzmán, Lou Hikaru, Jamal Grey, Derek Smith, and Joe Leal.
I shrugged. “Chad’s never going to notice me,” I said. “I’m like that crack in the sidewalk that he jumps to avoid. I’ll have to become a skateboard ramp or a pair of Vans before he notices me.”
Iliana punched my shoulder. “Stop it, will you? Of course he’s going to notice you. You’ve got nice, silky hair and a cute figure.”
I had to disagree. “A lamppost has more curves,” I said, pointing to one.
She laughed. “Only because of the way you’re dressed. What’s with the baggy, uninspired outfit? Even your T-shirt seems depressed.”
I glanced at it, a faded brown V-neck. Usually, I wore T-shirts with punch lines or funny cartoons, but I couldn’t laugh when Mom was sick. I shouldn’t be going to the park, either. I should have stayed home and helped her. I offered, but she got mad just like the night before. She said, “Don’t start acting like your dad by treating me like an invalid,” and she ran me out of the house, even gave me extra money.
“You’re not listening to a word I say,” Iliana complained. And she was right. I had no idea she’d been talking.
“I got some really bad news,” I explained, immediately regretting it. Sometimes, I didn’t want friend-to-friend counseling sessions. They made me feel… weak. I could take care of myself, thank you.
“What happened?” Iliana wanted to know.
I shrugged. “Nothing. It’s no big deal. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
We turned a corner and the park came into view. I sped up, nearly jogging.
“Wait!” Iliana reached for my arm but missed. “Don’t you want to talk?”
“Sure,” I called back. “Let’s talk about boys.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she said.
I pretended not to hear. “Hey, look. There’s Patty waving us over.”
We headed toward a picnic table with the Robins, our special group of friends. We have five members: me, Iliana, Patty, Shawntae, and GumWad, whose real name is Roberto. He had a purple tongue today because of his grape bubblegum. He really grossed me out sometimes. And to think that without the gum, he could be a decent-looking guy. He wasn’t athletic and he didn’t wear anything more interesting than T-shirts with sports logos and jeans. But he had a cuddly type of body like a teddy bear and dimples when he smiled. Too bad the dimples were on either side of a rainbow-colored mouth.
The Robins were my best friends, though we didn’t choose one another—not at first. Our second-grade teacher put us together. Her classroom had four big tables, and in the center of each was a nest with a stuffed bird—one with a cardinal, another with a mockingbird, and another with a blue jay. Our table had a robin. When you squeezed its belly, it sang—cheerily cheer-up cheer-up. We’d have contests. Whoever finished an assignment first or made the highest grade got to squeeze the bird’s belly. It seems silly now, but in second grade, squeezing the bird was a big deal.
As we approached the table, Iliana and I gave our friends a big Texas “Hi, y’all.”
“Hey,” they replied, hardly missing a beat in their conversation about some movie. This time, I tried my best to pay attention, especially since Iliana had already forgotten about my bad news. After a while, though, I started to feel really hot. In San Antonio, the temperature regularly hits the nineties, and the humidity made it feel like a hundred degrees. I grabbed a rubber band from my pocket and gathered my hair for a ponytail.
“You look hot,” GumWad announced.
“Ooh, Erica,” Shawntae teased. “Roberto thinks you’re hot.” She made a sizzling sound.
“That’s not what I meant,” GumWad said. “She’s not sexy or anything… just hot, like overheated, like there’s sweat running down the back of her neck.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said. “You sure know how to flatter a girl.”
“I was just noticing you were hot. I wasn’t trying to flatter you.”
“Obviously,” I said.
Shawntae punched me. “Leave the poor guy alone.”
“You started it, Shawntae, with all those sizzling sounds you made.”
“Yeah,” GumWad said, taking my side. “You started it. Erica’s not the only one who’s sweaty. We all are. Look.” He lifted his arms to show us round, damp splotches on the underarm parts of his T-shirt.
Patty pinched her nose. “Quit giving the skunks competition.”
“Do I smell that bad?” GumWad said, full of dismay.
Patty, Shawntae, and I nodded, but Iliana said, “Don’t listen to them. They’re picking on you because they don’t have anything better to do.”
“I can think of something better,” Patty said. “Let’s go see who’s skateboarding.”
Her suggestion reminded Iliana about our close encounter with Chad earlier, and as we walked toward the ramps, she told the group about it. We reached the skateboarding park and sat on some bleachers just as she finished her story. Then we scanned the cement hills before us. “There’s Alejandro,” Iliana said, pointing.
In fact, several cute guys from school were showing off grinds, kickflips, and ollies. We had fun watching them, giggling when they stumbled or fell and sighing when they took off their shirts. At one point, Forest stopped by. He said, “Hey, girls,” and we said “Hey” back. Then he turned to GumWad. “Where’s your board?”
“Left it at home.”
“You should bring it next time.”
“Sure thing.”
When Forest skated off, Patty hit GumWad’s shoulder and said, “You don’t have a skateboard.”
He shrugged.
“So why’d you lie?”
He shrugged again and glanced at me. He seemed embarrassed to be caught in a lie, but I could totally understand.
“I know why,” I said. “It’s a lot of trouble saying ‘I don’t have a skateboard’ to a guy who thinks skateboarding is life. Then you have to explain why when there isn’t a reason. You have nothing against skateboards. They just don’t interest you. But try telling them that. They’ll think you’re weird, which can cause all kinds of awkwardness. So it’s best to pretend, get them off your case.”
“Yeah,” GumWad said as grateful as someone who had just been rescued from an overturned ship.
Just then, we heard bells from the paleta man, a guy who hauled an ice chest between the back wheels of a three-wheel bike. He stored paletas in there, frozen fruit bars. They cost one dollar each.
“You want one?” GumWad asked me, but before I could answer, the other Robins were handing him money.
“Thanks for offering,” Iliana said. “You are so sweet,” she cooed.
Shawntae jumped in. “Yeah, you’re as sweet as… as sweet as…” She snapped her fingers, my cue to finish the sentence.
“As sweet as a cookie dough pizza topped with chocolate chips, marshmallows, and caramel.”
Everyone smacked their lips as they imagined it, except Patty. She rolled her eyes and said, “You’d have to run ten marathons to work off all those calories.”
Patty looked like the sweetest girl on the planet with her freckles and blue eyes, but if she won a million dollars, she’d focus on the extra taxes instead of the extra fun she could have.
“Well, I guess I could get some for all of us,” GumWad said, taking the not-so-subtle hint. We told him which flavors to buy, and he took off. The skateboarders and kids from the playground and pool had already formed a long line in front of the bicycle. That pal
eta man knew exactly when to show up.
While GumWad waited in the line, Shawntae, Iliana, and Patty went on and on about boys, which was usually my favorite topic, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Mom. How could she be sick? She seemed perfectly normal, full of energy. I couldn’t imagine cancer eating away part of her body, especially when she hadn’t complained about pain. Maybe it didn’t hurt till it was too late. Maybe cancer was like a termite, silent and invisible until you noticed the walls falling down.
“Erica!” Iliana said. “This is the second time you totally ignored me.”
“I ignored you?”
Patty explained, “You didn’t answer when Iliana asked who was cuter, Alejandro or Chad. You were looking right at them, but your mind was somewhere else.”
Just then, GumWad returned and passed out the paletas. I had ordered banana, but the other girls got strawberry, while GumWad got mango.
“Fess up,” Iliana said. “Time to tell us about your bad news.”
“What bad news?” Shawntae wanted to know.
“It’s private,” I said.
The Robins stared at me, silently eating their fruit bars and waiting. If I didn’t tell, they’d spend the whole day pestering me.
“Okay,” I said. “If you really have to know.” I paused, secretly hoping they’d let it go but knowing they wouldn’t. Taking a deep breath, I said, “My mom has breast cancer.”
If I was scared about cancer before, I was more scared now, because all of them stopped eating, stopped breathing, it seemed. They were as frozen as the paletas we held in our hands, but like the paletas, their initial shock was quickly melting away. “When did you find out?” they asked, and “How serious is it?” and “Is she in the hospital?” and “Is she… is she… is she going to die?”
“I don’t know!” I said, throwing my paleta to the ground. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you guys. I knew you’d have a million questions that I can’t answer.” I got a lump in my throat, the one that meant tears were on their way, so I swallowed hard and breathed deeply. I was not going to cry. Sure, these were my friends, but that didn’t mean I should act like a baby around them. “All I know for sure,” I said, more calmly, “is that my mom’s going to have a mastectomy.”